


anywhere but

by Hazzafagga



Category: One Direction
Genre: Gen, Harry Styles - Freeform, Louis Tomlinson - Freeform, Niall Horan - Freeform, babydaddy!harry, harryxgirl - Freeform, larry - Freeform, poor!harry, rich!louis
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-02
Updated: 2016-10-02
Packaged: 2018-08-19 03:56:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,501
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8188700
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hazzafagga/pseuds/Hazzafagga
Summary: one where the only source of happiness is in having a child.





	

**Author's Note:**

> lol found this in my notes n decided it's super cute !! I wanted to make louis n harry fuck right before harry leaves in the end but I honestly don't have time for that ???? (btw that's not a spoiler) this is like 2 years old just like everything I write so ignore how dumb it is

It was cold out. Much colder than he would have thought, and because of that, he wasn't prepared for such weather. He walked round in nothing but a thin, sooty jumper and jeans he'd been wearing throughout the week whilst in the freezing rain of London. He didn't quite know where he was going. As long as he followed the course away from his block, it didn't seem to matter. Nothing mattered. Nothing could change his mind about the hatred he had toward his mother, hatred toward his father, hatred toward his girlfriend who caught a train to Shropshire at three in the morning, leaving him wondering what he had done wrong. But he could never hate his girlfriend. He loved her so much despite what'd happened in the time being. He could never truly hate her because if he hated her, it meant he would have to hate his son, and he did, in no means, hate his precious little angel.

He sauntered along the sidewalk, the street's rainwater burying his feet, every step reminding him of slushing mouthwash. He'd only heard that particular noise a few times, mostly in childhood, but most recently several months ago when Julianna would wake all too early. He didn't like the noise.

He didn't like a lot of things. He didn't like people. He didn't like animals. He didn't like nature. He didn't like fingernails especially. He really didn't like those. The only thing he would admit to fondness of was colour. Yellow was his favourite.

Too many people stared at him as he walked and far too many people looked away as he made eye contact. He knew he wasn't the greatest-looking guy - wasn't exactly what people called "shagable." That didn't matter though. Nothing mattered.

"Yo, you got a phone?" he asked a woman at the till of her shop.

She shook her head and he went back out into the rain, going down the street to the next shop, and he repeated this until he found someone who didn't lie about having a mobile he could borrow. The man who gave him permission was quite nice to him. Perhaps a bit too nice, which is why he flipped him a middle finger, putting the phone back where he'd found it. He didn't like people too much. (Either they were afraid of him or felt sorry for him, and the rarest of them genuinely made him happy, though those few people always abandoned him - never failed.)

He crossed the street, avoiding everyone who gave him some kind of depressing stare. He didn't mind those people much. If they had a problem with him, which was usually the case, he didn't care, because it didn't matter. Nothing and no one mattered.

"Kid," he said to a younger-looking boy in a pawnshop, "need'a use your phone. Got one?"

The kid hesitated but obliged.

He snatched the mobile and nodded to him before moving away to dial. When he finished his call he handed the phone back, not giving a single thanks or subtle glint as he left. The boy called something to him - something about an umbrella - but he payed no attention and kept on his way through the pouring rain.

It was getting colder, windier outside. Perhaps it was below zero, and he suddenly regretted putting his hair up that morning.

He took off his hood and slid his hair ribbon out of the knot, shoving it in his pocket after shaking his fringe out and replacing the hood. It was a blue ribbon He stood in a corner shop waiting for the bus, the water in his clothes dripping in a puddle at his feet.

"Sir, you're going to have to stand outside please," said a middle-aged woman with a silver-streaked ponytail. "Or at least away from the door. Can't have a lawsuit, you know?"

He gave her an odious look before scooting behind the "Use Other Door" door.

For a couple of minutes he stared out the window watching the passersby and their confidence. He had that, maybe not the same type, but he had it. Even in his filthy jumper and threadbare jeans, Vans drab and nearly in four complete pieces, he had it. Perhaps a bit too much, but no one would ever know that because he was always there and then not - just there long enough to assume he didn't want to be messed with, and he didn't mind it.

"Sir, pardon me," the woman said, suddenly standing beside him. She held a WET FLOOR sign and a roll of paper towels.

He fretfully shuffled away from her and moved to the ice machine on the other side of the shop. As he picked at his nails he realised what he was doing. He returned to the woman and snatched the roll from her hand. "I'll do it," he said as chivalrously as he could.

She thanked him and leaned the sign against the door for when he finished, and as he put the napkin under his foot to mop up the water, a man walked in.  
His eyes shot up. Meeting gazes with the lad, his feet almost tripped as he hurriedly moved from the door, but luckily managed to catch the magazine rack and keep himself upright.

The man's eyes washed over him intriguingly, but he instantaneously looked away as he stepped over the puddle in his water-stained, suede Oxford shoes. "Second pump, please, Miss Hannah," he said to the woman behind the counter. "Gaspers as well." He slid down a note, gave her a polite grin and took a pack of Menthols before turning for the door.

He maneuvered farther from the entrance and brought the yellow sign along with him. He nodded toward the puddle. "Mind your step."

The man stopped to look at him. He opened the small box and drew a cigarette to his lips. "Right," he mumbled sardonically, "thanks," and left.

He stood there a moment with his shoes still drenched. The tone of the man's voice punctured his ears like obnoxious sneeze after sneeze and the imperious face he gave him remained ironed to the back of his eyes for quite a time. That face. That fresh, costly face with provoking eyes and model-like status; rich clothes and ornate shoes he could have bought with a smile and a half. He had his nose up, and the man had been sarcastic with him.

He unfolded the sign and slammed it down, shoving the door open whilst the chime swung. He stepped out into the rain fuming, his glare trained on a person covered in Burberry and water almost heavenly beaded on sickeningly perfect slick hair, standing at the second filling station. He stormed back inside.

"Who is that guy?" he snarled at the cashier.

"Sorry?"

He pointed through the window, jabbing his finger to the glass as if trying to break it. "That expensive, rotten prick! Who's that?"

"Ah, there's Doctor Tomlinson. Did my baby's cast a few months ago."

He looked out into the rain. He sneered. "'Doctor.'"

"Yes, doctor. Quite a good one at that. Best one I've had, to be honest."

He watched the man open his car door and reach in for a lighter to kindle his cigarette, then tossed it back in. He checked his timepiece, jiggled the pump, checked it again, then jiggled it once more.

"What's his attitude? Thinks he's better than me 'cause he's got a clean shave and £500 coat?"

"He's not from this part, you'll have to mind him."

"'Mind him?'" he hissed. "Just that he dresses like a damn model and fixes people up don't mean he's--"

The door chimed and the man stepped in. "Hannah, love, when does the next bus come by?"

"A few minutes," she said. "Can I ask why?"

"I'm picking up an old friend. He's coming down from Ireland for a few days to adopt a kid he's majorly obsessed with. And since I'm living nearby, we thought to make plans for him to visit me. Meet the missus."

"If you just had a missus."

"Yeah, course."

He rolled his eyes and huffed, looking out through the window.

A woman was walking her son and baby to the bus stop, and he couldn't help but see himself in her; her frizzy, unkempt hair, undone shoe laces, obviously rushed makeup, but two kids no bigger than five who looked like they'd just come out of a magazine. He related to that. There was nothing he wouldn't do for his son. Nothing.

He twisted the ribbon in his pocket.

_"Hey."_

He turned back. The man was looking at him expectantly, as if he'd been craving his attention for ages.

"What?"

"Care for a drink?" Another smug grin.

He seethed and prodded his tongue into his cheek. "I'm good," he said sternly, peering back out the window.

The screech of the bus sliced the rain's patter in half as it came in front of the shop. A small group of people waddled down the steps - two women, an elderly man, a child and a boy round his age tugging a suitcase and umbrella.

"Ask your mate," he said and pushed open the door.

"Actually, he's an alcoholic," the man called to him as he walked out. "He prefers I drink round him though! Never understood why!"

The door shut behind him and the man officially disappeared from his life.

He walked down the sidewalk, rain meeting his skin once again, the musty dog smell now off his jumper, and he eyed the old man, the two young ladies and child and the boy with the umbrella. His umbrella was black with a white handle.

As they crossed paths, they looked up and met eyes, and the other smiled. "Should wear a coat next time," he said kindly.

He struggled to rip his gaze away. This boy, who couldn't have been a day over twenty-two, had eyes like a moth light trap and voice like an independent film narrator, a simple _ding_ in every word he spoke.

He managed to ignore him though as they parted ways. Once he grabbed the railing of the bus and stepped onto the platform, he sighed at the warmth that spilled out and touched his hands, but before he could climb up someone tapped him. He threw his wet fringe out of his eyes and looked over his shoulder.

The boy stood behind him with an enchanting glint, holding out his closed umbrella.

He shook his head. "I'm good, man," he said, rather dumbfounded.

"Take it." Smile. "I'm already where I should be."

Before he could reiterate his no and dictate him, the boy slipped the umbrella into his hand.

Fixing his hood over his head, he pretended to shiver. "You know, there's no such thing as 'better than,'" he said. "I would know. I was you at one point or another, jumping from place to place."

He sized him up. "You don't know me."

"Yeah." The boy popped his thumbs in his fists and shrugged happily. "I'm Niall."

"Whatever." He stepped on the bus and the doors closed.

He sat in the end, staring at the back of everyone's heads as he sought them to leave, and then he'd stare at the next people to take their places. He watched a lot of heads. He'd been there for a long, long time with absolutely nothing to do but angrily look at the back of these people's heads. He had so much anger towards them; all of them, because he could tell expensive clothes apart from something like his any day. He wasn't anywhere near rich, or anywhere near money, nor a job. He was far from near in the aspects of good living. But he didn't mind that, because it just didn't matter. Wealth didn't matter, so he hated it.

The clouds were thinning. It was becoming lustrous outside, slowly but surely, as the sun finally made way into the sky that no longer had a grey face. The face was yellow and blue. If there was a face he loved more than the sky's, it was his son's.

When the bus had left him at his stop, and he'd grabbed the black umbrella, he walked another few blocks in the drizzle. He liked the way the handle fit in his palm, and it reminded him of a baby's fist. He'd stopped to tie his hair up with the ribbon, and he contemplated leaving the umbrella where he leaned it against a building wall, but he took it and opened it up over his head.

The wind got brisker after a couple streets. He had to put the umbrella down, yet he walked it like a cane at the crosswalk and dragged it like a string along the sidewalk. He didn't like carrying it. He didn't like carrying anything, but it had made the exception, for the grip on the white handle made him think of a child's hand still, and though he didn't like holding anything, that made the exception, too.

"Lady, can I barrow your phone?" he asked a women who had been using one.

She told him it had died, so he rolled his eyes in irritation of her and asked a man in a hardware store. There was a pay phone inside his shop, so he left and kept walking down the street. Once he finally found an old man with a modern mobile to offer him, he called a person, left a voicemail, then returned it with an adequate smile.

He sat on a bench outside an off-license with the umbrella between his legs. A leaf came to his foot, and so he tapped on it with his shoe, scraping it off as far away from himself as he could. He didn't like leaves. Especially not the wet ones. He didn't like nature. Nature was too clingy, and he didn't fancy that, and so that's why he liked his girlfriend for some time. Julianna was free-spirited, sweet, and her fingers were just far too short for the size of her palms. He liked to hold her hands, lace ribbons between her forefingers, kissing her open palms and tracing the lines there. But that was just a memory like mouthwash, something he felt he hadn't seen in ages.

A black woman sat beside him on the bench. She was sat much too close; he could smell her intense perfume and he might have walked away if it weren't for the dozing infant in her arms.

He stared at the chubby, fair-skinned face, and he couldn't help to admire those dark eyelashes and teeny, tiny fists. She was as beautiful as her mother, he thought. The woman had seen his eyes lain on her child, though she only smiled at him.

A time came where she got up and left, and he suddenly missed that baby dearly. He missed his son. Missed his smile so much it could kill him.

It'd been a while since he first sat down. The sun was going down rapidly it seemed, hiding away again behind the cityscape. He didn't want to wait at that bench any longer, but he would, and he did. He would always wait there. So he sat into the next hour looking round at the people who walked by, the ones who glanced at him then looked away. He knew he was intimidating, but that was the way it had to be.

It was near 8:00 in the evening when he fell asleep there under the city lights and the stars. It'd only been a minute though before he jolted awake to a deafening car horn.

"Mate, how long you been out here?" a wretchedly familiar voice called to him.

  
He shook the slumber from his eyes and looked up into the street. He was furious. He looked back down and twiddle the umbrella between his knees.

"Hey!"

"Fuck off."

He heard the open and close of a car door, so he immediately stood up, dropped the umbrella and began walking away.

Someone grabbed his arm.

"Don't fucking touch me!" He snatched his hand away, turning to tyrannise this person, but looking at them, he just couldn't. "What do you want?" he mumbled.

The blond boy eyed him worriedly and shook his head. "You fell asleep outside."

"Yeah, so?"

"Don't you have somewhere to go?"

"Don't you?" he growled, stepping closer to him.

The boy took a step back, but didn't retreat. "Should you call someone?" He pulled out a cellphone and watched the other curiously, yet he didn't turn it on.

He glared at this boy, the one from the bus stop, and he suddenly felt nothing besides hatred for him. He once thought this boy had crossed paths with him to give him an umbrella, but he was only to spite him. He and that dreadful doctor, they were only to spite him.

He threw his gaze to the car he'd come from, and the cigarette man from the corner store was seated inside, as he could have guessed, blowing smoke out of the window.

"No," he said to the boy. "I'm meeting someone here."

"Oh." He tucked his phone away. "Can I ask who?"

"No."

The boy nodded and tried to rid the smirk on his face, and that aggravated him.

"Look, man, I didn't ask you to step out your fucking car and come out here, and I sure as hell didn't need you to."

"I know," the boy agreed, rather short-tempered. "Louis did."

He frowned. He peered up at the car, almost subsequently looking away as he made eye contact with the man there through the side-view.

"Tell him to mind his own goddamn business." He turned his back on him and started walking away. "Good luck on the alcoholism."

The blond didn't say anything after that. He didn't try to speak to him again. He and the doctor left and the umbrella was left alone in the soft drizzle of London.

The next morning, he woke up to a honk. Laughter is what it sounded like to him, and it wasn't a very enticing one. If he didn't already assume who's laugh it was, he would have let it put him back to sleep, but he could hear the vanity in it; the bounce in his stomach, single clap of his hands - the alone loudness was sickening. He sat up on the bench.

"Haven't you been here yesterday?" the cigarette man shouted at him from his car. "Come over a second."

He contemplated stoning his Ford Mustang and beating him unconscious through the window. He wanted to destroy this man, this egotistic doctor, to shut him up and teach him a lesson or two on humility. But something about his face wasn't completely selfish. Something about his face was colourful.

"Where's that blond?" he asked the man.

  
"He's at court for the adoption, remember? Come here, I want to talk to you."

He licked his lips and shook his head to himself. "Get a laugh from fucking with me, mate?"

"I'm not fucking with you," he argued. "I have moral values. I was passing by and you were still here."

"I left and came back."

"Even if that were remotely true, it wouldn't change the fact that you slept outside on a bench."

He looked down from his pompous stare and ignored his next few heys until he become fed up. He rolled his eyes and started walking away.

That didn't stop the man from turning his car round and driving alongside him in the lot. "Who are you waiting for anyway?" he pressed. "Anyone who makes you sit outside all night isn't exactly someone worth waiting for in the first place."

"And you would know?!" He could feel the heat in his face, his skin burning with even the sight of this man. "You don't know anything about me. Just go back to wherever the fuck you came from-- your bloody perfect-arse life and get the fuck out of my face."

"Fine. I'm passing by here to stop at the orphanage tomorrow and if you're still here, then I won't keep calling this a coincidence."

As simple as that, he was there the next day.

"Hey."

"Go away."

"Come here. I'm not going to keep doing this with you."

"I didn't fucking tell you to. Piss off." He stood from the bench to leave.

The Ford Mustang spun round in the lot of the off-license and parked ahead in the neighbouring one.

He didn't like this car. It was clever, fast, too modish with its black exterior and, from what he could see, white interior. It matched the doctor too well. Though as the man opened the door and climbed out, he couldn't help but let confusion capture him.

The man approached him in a t-shirt and skin-tight blue jeans, and what had utterly thrown him was his completely tattered converse and plentiful tattoos. "What are you doing sleeping out here every night?" he questioned, impatience growing on him.

"I'm not, okay?!"

"Right, yeah. You could've gotten away with that one if you weren't wearing the same clothes from Thursday." He tried beckoning him to his car. "Come on, where should I take you?"

He was fuming. "Nowhere! I don't need your fucking help!"

"Well, you need someone's!"

It was fury submerging him entirely. This man, this insolent, tiresome, purely provocative man, was no use to him, and neither was he. They did not need each other. He didn't need him. He didn't want him. He hated him. So why had he gotten into the car with this stupid, stupid, stupid doctor?

The atmosphere was thick with tension as they drove, and he could almost suffocate in it. He stole tiny peeks at the man through the corner of his eye, and he would have been caught every time if the potential sunlight in the man's eye hadn't been there. He really didn't like this car.

The man twisted his fists on the wheel, licked his lips and cleared his throat. "Are you hungry?"

"Let me out." He put his fingers on the handle and slightly, accidentally, opened the door.

"No, no!" the man begged. "Take your hand off!"

"I'm no tramp, all right?!"

"All right."

"Don't talk to me like a sodding charity case!"

"All right! Jesus, just remove your hand from the door."

He glared at the man as he shut the door, slowly slipping his fingers from the handle, eyes set on his sunlit face so evilly. There was nothing more he hated than people, despite fingernails, and this man's fingernails were weird.

"Even if you won't take up an offer, I'm bound to take my own."

"Pardon?"

"Wherever I go, you go, since you are in fact in my car." The man looked away from the road to scan his face, waiting to see any sort of reaction from him. There was nothing though. He showed no signs of regard for him, as it was.

They sat in silence on the way to a McDonald's, and he almost screamed in protest when the doctor started ordering for two.

"I don't want that," he'd say, but really said, "No."

"What do you want then?"

The look on the man's face was so conceited, and more than the look was the way he looked. He looked like an arrogant, rich man, which was the case, but there was something else in his face that wasn't so. Something about his face was still colourful, and he couldn't put his finger on it.

It was as if he forgot what was happening, so he just sat there with a scowl.

The man ordered regardless. They sat in the car with the sickening smell of McDonald's chips and meat patties, choking them, and he contemplated rolling down the window, but he didn't like the feeling of brisk wind on his face. It hurt his cheeks, so he hated it.

The car stopped at the gate of a secured community, and he was wasn't at all surprised.

"I'm not going to your house," he said unsettlingly.

"Right. Then where are you going from here?" The doctor rolled down the window and opted to reach for the keypad of the gate, but after he'd stuck his arm out, he looked over his shoulder and gave a handsome raise of his brows. "Your bench is a lovely 90-minute walk off here, I'm afraid. And I reckon you're quite in the mood for something to drink, which I was just about to offer you. But if you'd like to go, that's quite fine with me."

He didn't have anything feisty to say to that (despite "fuck yourself", but he was growing tired of those words) so he didn't say anything. He _tsk_ ed, and before he knew it, he was carrying a McDonald's bag standing outside of the doctor's flat.

"You can go to the table with that," the man said, barely managing the cup holder, bag and keys in his hands. "Actually, just sit in the living room if you prefer the TV. I'll have to tidy a few things. I'll be with you in just a moment."

He hugged the bag to his chest as he waited uncomfortably for the doctor to open the door. Not that he wanted to go in. Since he was no longer treating him like a vagrant, he was treating him like one of his patients. He did not appreciate that. What he really wanted to do was drop the bag, kick the back on the doctor's knee and take the ninety-minute walk back to the off-license. He wanted to keep waiting there at that bench because he certainly would wait forever. But the rich man in Converse was struggling to turn the key and handle the cup holder and bag at once. His hands were small, far too small for a man his age (which must have been at least twenty-five), and that reminded him of babies' hands. He could not and would not leave him to carry both McDonald's bags and cup holder and keys and manage the door on his own.

He did want to say something tactless still as the man had a faint cigarette odor, though he only rolled his eyes and tossed his hair back.

The man opened the door finally and stepped aside.

He didn't move for a moment. In times like this when someone chose to open a door for him, he would take the other door to avoid conversation or even a thank you. But there was only one door, one way in, and this man was standing too close for him to pass without brushing him in some way.

He awkwardly squeezed through, avoiding eye contact as he tried as carefully forbearing as he could to not skim the man's arm. It didn't matter that he looked utterly ridiculous. He wasn't up for unnecessary touching. Especially not from Doctor Tomlinson.

"Oh, and mind the dogs."

His grip on the bag reflexively tightened. Dogs. Dogs. Dogs. Dogs. And the fact that it was dogs, more than one, plural, really did make him want to kick the man's knee.

He turned round to check the door's open, which it was not, and as his head was turned, a large beast took him by the shoulders, the bag nearly falling from his arms. Slime smeared across his face, and it was so thick he could almost taste it.

His heart beat much quicker than it should have been. He began to hyperventilate. "Oh, my God... Oh, my God."

He heard the man laugh his almost non-vile laugh as he stood frozen beside the fact that a ten-foot-tall dog hung round his neck, stabbing its cold, wet snout into his cheek.

"Get down, Jazz," the cigarette man coaxed, grabbing the canine under the rig cage and guiding it down. The dog had sauntered away, though its presence, and scent, ghosted the room unfortunately. "Sorry, they're quite jumpy with strangers. Could probably smell the food, as well."

"What the fuck kind of dog is that?" He dropped his McDonald's bag on the coffee table, grabbed it by the bottom and dumped everything out. He fisted his sleeve to wipe his face, then after he shook his fringe, pushed it back, he pulled his hair into the ribbon and tied it up.

"Mate, seriously? Why do that? Why dump it all out right there?"

"Why have a goddamn horse running round your fucking flat?"

"The horse has a name, thanks."

He sneered. "I don't give a fuck."

The man, somehow having the pristine courage, approached him with his puny hands on his hips.

He immediately forgot what bad posture was and grew a few inches in that daunting second. Although he was noticeably taller, bigger, and could easily crumple the man like sheets of paper, he still believed (in his way of growing up) he needed to make him feel small.

But that didn't stop the murderous glint in the man's eye.

"Listen. I'm okay with letting you stay for a while. But if you wouldn't mind, I would very much appreciate if you were quite finished with this whole 'bad boy' persona you've got going on."

"No, you listen," he started, stepping far too close for either of their liking. "I don't wanna be here in the first place. You fucking drug me here like an injured stray, all right? I don't need you feeling sorry for me or treating me to any of your fancy, rich shit, the likes and that."

"What are you doing here then? The door's right bloody there."

He couldn't understand where this man was coming from. How he could come from pricey holidays, Mustangs and Rolex watches and think himself a giant all due to the one factor everyone wanted: money. That face. The face he was making to him, it made him furious. His face, that provoking, spiteful face. He wanted to bruise it. He wanted to beat up this Doctor Tomlinson and punch his monster-dog straight in the slimy nose. This man - he had the face of a crisp £100 note, and he wanted to tear it to shreds because he was nothing but a measly penny. If that.

The two of them ate in silence, of course after he scooped the chips back onto the bag he'd flattened out, the television excusing them for their lack of chat. Or perhaps the lack of response.

"So what's your story? Running from your problems? The Feds?"

TV.

"What are you called? I'd grow a bit tired of calling you Hey."

"I agree."

"Name?"

Nothing.

They said nothing. Until dark came, they avoided each other's company. He had a long, stress relieving shower, one he could fall asleep in, whilst the man threw his clothes into the wash. He would have confronted him when the doctor asked for his pants, but there wasn't much he could do. Sincerely he could have done something. He could have left. He would have been one step closer to having a better life, yet two steps back in any other case without someone's help, no matter how much he wish he didn't need it.

"Give me my clothes," he said as he left the bathroom with a towel round his waist.

The man laughed from where he sat on the couch, which was black leather of course. He had a binder in his lap, an uncapped marker-pen twiddled between his lips like a straw-biter. A pair of dark framed glasses were set on the bridge of his nose, which was buttony if he were to say so himself (of that he most definitely would not). The binder was white. It looked a bit silly on his lap from the proportions, making him look much smaller than he was.

"They are drying at the moment," the man said almost too quietly to hear. "I thought it'd finish by the time you came back from swimming, but, you know... Was it lovely?"

"Shut the fuck up."

Doctor Tomlinson shuffled through the pages. "Oh yes, that's another thing. No cussing."

"Bullshit. You cuss."

The man hushed him, lulling him with his hand to lower his voice.

It worked, and that made him angry.

"Yeah, you're right, I do cuss," he continued, "but not in my flat. I would appreciate that. Respect is the key to a beautiful friendship."

He sneered. "We ain't friends."

"Mhmm, okay!" He was being childish, removing his glasses and folding them into his shirt collar. Although he hadn't once taken a single glance away from his paperwork, his complete undivided attention remained locked upon his guest. "Upstairs, get some clothes from the closet. Anything's fine as long as it's casual, and please don't put your shoes back on until they're dry. You can borrow a pair of mine if you, for some reason, need to. You're welcome to anything in the kitchen, make yourself at home, respect everyone and everything in the household and we won't have a problem." When he finished reciting his regulations, he looked up, the most concerned face the younger man had seen on him. "That includes my dogs. Don't call them horses."

"Fine." He crossed his arms. "What do I call them?"

As the man went back to his paperwork, he looked down and his eyes scrambled for where he had left off, and something there on his face was captivating.  
He didn't know what it was, though. Not that he cared.

"The one who hugged you, that's Jasmine. She's a sweetheart, you'll get on fine with her. The black one is Diesel. He prefers not to be bothered, but he won't get angry with you if he is. I have a cat. His name is Daniel Hanford and Niall has brought his whilst he's here. She's called Mini, and I beg you, please don't leave them alone together. She's in heat and he's not... you know."

He didn't take any of his pets' names to consideration and spent no time trying to remember which was called which and what or what not to do for which one. He hated animals. He despised them for their filthiness and lack of English. They annoyed him; they all wanted something that he could not offer or didn't know how to, mewling like... animals. They were disgusting.

He opted standing round in his towel until his clothes were ready to be worn, but his notion to irritate Doctor Tomlinson backfired and left himself uncomfortable and feeling vulnerable. He didn't like that feeling.

He went upstairs to find an outfit to his liking, yet most literally stumbled upon who he recalled was either Mini or Daniel Hanford.

"Dumb-arse cat," he cursed as it whined and skittered beneath the bed.

Indeed there were a few pieces of clothes in the closet he wasn't too reluctant to wear, as he found out. It bemused him to see so many small shirts and trousers in a grown man's closet, if grown was used in forms of maturity, because despite his raging sense of adult style, Doctor Tomlinson was a very small man. So small that their hands could fit together like father and son. Only that was uncalled for, and he would never suggest such a thing. He didn't like Doctor Tomlinson. He would never fancy a hand-hold from him.

After he dressed in a surprisingly loose-fitted shirt and gym shorts, he came down to the kitchen.

"Jesus bloody Christ!"

It was not meant to leave his mouth, as he more or less swore to respect the rules of the house, but as he stepped through the kitchen door, a bony, alien-looking monstrosity stood at the sink stretching from counter to counter. It guzzled down from the running faucet as easily as a human could, and when it finished, turned the faucet with its snout and jumped down.

"There's a dog in here!" he called out to the cigarette man. "There's a-a fucking huge-arse dog in here!"

"It's fine, he doesn't bite. And watch the language!"

Disregarding the reassurance, he rushed out of the room without any other thought and immediately bumped into Doctor Tomlinson, knocking him right down to the floor.

"Shit, I'm sorry," he apologised rather sympathetically, fidgeting with his fingers.

The man sighed and rubbed his forehead, looking up with some kind of exhaust. "I'm fine."

Hearing that, a mound of pressure had risen off his chest, and the biggest urge to help the doctor up overtook him. He offered his hand which he gratefully took, pulling him up much harder than he should have.

His hands were small. They were so femininely, boyishly small with palms softer than his own, which were remarkably soft. And they were gentle; much like a lady's but more like a man's which gave them needed firmness, because if he didn't have that, surely someone would take advantage of him. They'd held hands for only a few seconds, yet, and he found himself consenting the thought of this, he could recognise them now. He'd touched only several hands in his life, and Doctor Tomlinson had one he would remember.

But that didn't mean he was fond of him. He was anything but.

The man retrieved his binder from the floor and nodded before squeezing through the small door space that was left.

He didn't move from the position. What was he to do? He did not live here. He couldn't go anywhere. He could leave. He could leave out the front door and go back to the bench because no matter how warm it was in this flat or how cozy the man's shirt was on him, he would still wait there. He'd wait there always. And he contemplated this. He contemplated walking out and taking the ninety-minute venture to the off-license, which he greatly considered.

He took a step for the door, and the man grabbed his arm from behind.

He reflexively jumped round and ambled backward.

"Look, I don't like people touching me," he said as straightforwardly as he could.

"Sure." Smirk. "Are you planning on staying?"

"Staying?"

"Yeah, the night. Because I've got to get Niall now and you're welcome to come with. Or you can stay whilst I'm gone, but I'm convinced you're afraid of dogs, so I thought, you know, maybe--"

"I ain't afraid of dogs."

"Yeah?"

"They're disgusting. They lick your mouth after they've licked they're arse. It's fucking gross and I don't fancy the taste dog shit." He was all too close to the doctor now, looking as if he'd hit him, and he possibly would.

"You know, I'm quite tired of this." The man gestured to the little space between them. "This thing you do, it's not working for me."

"What?"

"You're defensive for no reason. I'm not trying to harass you, there's no need to defend yourself. You've been making everything a big deal when it's not. I'm just trying to figure you out."

"Maybe I don't want you to! I'm not a kid, you can't just... trick me into telling you shit about me!" He became so close to kicking the man's shin and stealing his car keys. The want to beat him to a pretty pulp was evident in his eyes, in the way he glared down and offered nothing but his loathing judgement.

"And the whole mensuration thing. That has to stop."

"I don't do that!"

"You size me up like you're better than me, you realise that? We're only having a conversation. I don't want you to feel like you have to stand your ground, especially in my house. This is _my_ house, you don't size me up! You just don't do that!"

  
He scoffed and rolled his eyes.

"I want to help you," the man went on, "I do, but you have to let me."

Looking down at the doctor - stupid, stupid doctor - he saw something that he had seen before that was not certain, but it was clear now: he was disgusting. Everything about him was completely revolting. There was an impossible sense of self-absorption, which he knew about beforehand, but it was so seeable. One could almost touch it, feel the arrogance falling off of him and see it puddle at his feet like urine.

"I don't need your help," he said and left.

  
But he would have been lying if he convinced himself otherwise of the yank at his heartstrings. It wasn't lovely. He felt kicked.

He made it back to the off-license an hour before midnight. His place on the bench was yet to be occupied, and as he sat, he thought of how angry he was. The walk was not ninety minutes. It must have taken him three hours (which it did not, but it did feel as such, more or less because he wasn't in shoes) and he was tired.

He fell asleep there, and it would be an understatement to say he didn't wake with a frown the second he heard the car honk.

"Hey."

"Leave me alone."

"I didn't kick you out, you left on your own."

He chose not to bicker - only walked away. The blond, whose voice he could recall, had shouted something to him from the Mustang, something he didn't care to listen to.

"You can join us for takeaway," the doctor called. "And you know, Jasmine misses you. But Daniel hates your fucking guts."

He barged into the off-license, brushing off their disgusting attempts to beg him back. Even if they had really wanted him back, he didn't them. He wanted neither of them. Not even the beautiful little girl in the backseat of the Mustang buckled safely in her carseat, staring at him through the window as he left. He only wanted his son. That's all he wanted.

The moment he stepped foot inside, the hunger that had been slowly creeping up behind him had finally hit, smacked him, punched him hard and hurt his stomach. Of course he'd been so hungry before, but he was young, skinny then - he was an average size. He was tall now, bigger, had grown into his feet and hands and his curls were suddenly not so curly anymore. He didn't like them anyway. Curly hair was ugly to him.

The blond came in then. He found him sitting against the wall with his head thrown back, completely fatigued. "All right?" he asked him.

He rolled his eyes and sighed. "Why do you care? Go take your daughter home."

The boy slowly welcomed a grin onto his face, his eyes shining like tiny, little stars. "It seems you know a bit about me. What's there worth mention about you?"

  
"Nothing."

 

"I doubt that." He kicked his feet rhythmically and never did he stop smiling. "We should formally meet."

"Sorry?"

The blond stilled his steps and pulled his hand out of his coat pocket, holding it out. "I'm Niall. Horan."

His hand was held for him. It was there for him to shake. He didn't want to shake it. And the fact that he sat against the wall directly across another person who stood, spoke to him like he was his only concern made him nervous. The boy was above him at this point, and the apparent size difference, that he was bigger and could simply crush him, didn't seem to matter. How could it not matter?

He took the boy's hand and shook it. "Harry."

They chatted only a minute before, and it was utmost nerve racking the way he thought about it, walked out of the off-license to the Ford Mustang.

He stood there anxiously, toying with the cigarette man's t-shirt he still wore, rubbing the bottom of his foot against the top of the other, biting his lips, and he suddenly decided to pull the ribbon out of his hair again.

The blond, Niall, open the backdoor of the car, and as he did, there was mewling. "She's sleeping," he said quietly and shut the door. "We're getting a pizza or something before we go home. Want to come?"

And there was no way he could say no. Of course he could say "Fuck no, I don't want to come," but who was he now to say that? If the cigarette man had asked, that would be a different story. He would have given him more to work with only because they annoyed each other, and if he made him angry, that was another ounce of anger taken right off his chest. It wasn't right, but what was right in this world?

The four of them drove down the road with the radio singing soft country, what it seemed to him (which it wasn't), and hardly did he take his eyes off the sleeping girl beside him.

She must have been four, only two years older than his own. He couldn't help but stare; she was beautiful, and he wished she wasn't sleeping so he could see her eyes. Her long, brown hair was glued to her face with sweat, her face too red for a child her age. He felt her forehead.

"Your daughter's warm," he said as he wiped the sweat from her face.

  
Niall turned round and looked at her closely. "Oh yeah, she exercises in her dreams. Her words exactly. Could you pull her hair away, please?"

He looked down at her. She hadn't stirred at all - either she was a heavy sleeper, having a bad dream, or she was too ill to acknowledge his presence.

Carefully he pushed her hair out of her face, pulled it as well as he could behind her head, bowing it with the blue ribbon round his wrist. Never had he given it to anyone. He'd never thought to. He'd never wanted to give it to a person who didn't matter as much as breathing does. This girl beside him though, she did matter. Perhaps not enough to him, but she mattered to someone. She mattered now because of Niall's sincerity, and they were beautiful together.

He had been invited inside, as was discussed at the off-license, the doctor's home once again. It wasn't very comforting being there a second time, but for some reason, he was calm. Calm because it was familiar. Only that and nothing else. And once again, giving him a near heart attack, a dog jumped upon him, this time pulling him down. It was inconvenient that he was holding the pizza, so he had an enormous urge to smash the pie in Jasmine's face.

"See, told you she missed you," Doctor Tomlinson said too teasingly.

He looked up and glared, apprehensively ushering the dog away. "Why's that fucking funny? You get a laugh at your animals mauling people?"

Niall immediately glared and smoothed his daughter's hair where her head lay limp on his shoulder. "Do you mind?"

"Right," the man said, offering his hand to him, "We have a child here now, so you've double the _no cursing in my flat_ rule. It shouldn't be too hard." Smile.

  
He could only snarl and shove the pizza box to him, helping himself up. "Eat your stupid pepperonis."

The night went on casually. He learned that the cigarette man wasn't very keen on sharing, though neither was he, as Doctor Tomlinson had grown more and more irritable every time Niall asked for the television remote or a phone charger. Niall had left his and would buy another in the morning. He'd forgotten a lot of things. Like enough trousers and some hygiene products. He meant to shop for that as well, since what he did certainly manage to bring plenty of was money. He perhaps brought too much and would, as he said, spend it all on his daughter called Abigail.

If he had enough of that, money, he would spend every piece on his son for certain. Only he had about five pounds to his name which no one would ever be able to match to a face, and the rich man beside him on the leather, black couch shoved his £100 face at him relentlessly.

They spent the next days at the flat together, and every night he sat on the off-license bench for hours until Louis Tomlinson came to pick him up. The man hadn't bothered asking why he'd been waiting there everyday since the first time though he secretly wanted to, and Harry did - so much - want someone to ask again. But no one did.

As it stormed, he awoke one night in bed to padding feet that quickly tiptoes to his side. He turned on the mattress to see Louis Tomlinson's sweaty, frustrated face. "What?"

The man said nothing, seeming almost embarrassed whilst he stood hugging his bare-chested self.

 _"What?"_ He snapped.

"Nothing. I forgot to say goodbye."

"Goodnight?"

"Yeah, goodnight. That's what I meant." The man smiled uneasily.

He could feel the tension between them, and for a moment he felt he'd done something wrong, but that wasn't the case so he grew irritated. "Goodnight," he said bluntly.

"Goodnight." Louis smiled.

He watched the man refuse to leave. "What do you want?!"

Thunder had exploded then, sending Louis Tomlinson into a small, spastic frenzy. He winced violently, radically breathing as the sounds passed, standing beside the bed with his body in humiliating shock.

They stared at each other, their faces entirely embarrassed and pink, though the room was heavily contrasted in lights and darks from the window's rain, but superiorly dark. His stomach flipped from the burning heat in his skin, and that bothered him; he had been the most perfect sleeping temperature all night, and it was ruined (like everything else) because of this stupid doctor.

"You scared of thunder or something?" he mumbled sleepily.

"No. I'm not a kid. The storm's fine, I just came to say goodnight." Doctor Tomlinson turned round for the door but came running back as thunder clapped, throwing himself onto the bed as if something were about to pulled him under.

"Get the bloody fuck off me!" he exclaimed, pushing the doctor onto the floor and taking the blanket down with him. "Mate, you better quit fucking with me, I'll kick your fucking arse!"

He heard Jasmine and Diesel barking from the other room. He hardly gave notice, yanking the blanket away from the man and within seconds the dogs were with Louis. He was stood up now, though his animals still barked. He pet their faces and shooed them by.

"I'm not scared of thunder, all right?" The doctor was breathing far too heavily for his behaviour and size, seeming as if he'd pass out then. "I'm not. It just reminds me of something. But I'm not scared of it."

It was in fact an understatement. The doctor meant what he said, as it would have been childish to be afraid of something as common as thunder. He was afraid of lions, and he had the courage to tell his guest apart from the reason why.

They shared the bed, and Louis Tomlinson clung tightly to his pillow until the storm passed.

Niall and Abigail had gone back to Ireland, leaving him miserable and in need of someone to talk to. Not that he didn't talk to Doctor Tomlinson; it was all only formal and brief. The man would say, "How have you slept?" and he'd reply usually, "Fine," and not return the question.

"I've got to go. My boy's fallen on his arm, which is apparently quite serious," Louis Tomlinson said one morning that was sunny, pulling himself into a button-down and tie.

He looked at the man from the kitchen table, eyeing his body as he dressed. "I thought you didn't have kids."

"He's my nephew." Doctor Tomlinson looked up at him after tying his Oxfords, walking over to grab his keys. "Believe me, I'd love a kid if I could have one. But I'm single and can't quite push a baby out my arse."

He easily spooned up his cereal and scarfed down the rest he had, drank the milk, lay the spoon in the bowl and pulled his hair back into the ribbon. He thought to make a snide remark on how terribly hypocritical this man was, going back on in own flat rules, but decided it unnecessary. "Why don't you adopt?" he wondered, leaning back in the chair and shoving his hands in his jumper pockets. "Niall's single, he adopted Abby."

"Well, Niall can't have kids. But, see, I _can_ , which makes it all the more annoying. Adoption, it's just-- It's not for me. I like the fact that you're saving a kid who's completely and utterly alone in the world, but I also really like the idea of them looking like me and sharing my blood. I'd like to have a kid that's mine and the only way it seems I'll be able to accomplish that is with a birthmother."

He listened to the man speak, spill his heart out to him on this one beautiful factor, and he suddenly felt selfish. To live in a world where people couldn't have babies was like living in a world where only primary colours existed and unable to mix, regardless of how beautiful their new colour could be. He felt bad for them, Niall and Louis.

That day he left whilst Louis was working. He went back to off-license, waiting there for hours until the days upon days and cold nights on the bench hungry and bothered payed off. In just one moment, he could feel his chest expand and collect the air round him like he should have been capturing happiness. Though it didn't matter, because he was suddenly the happiest person alive.

_"Daddy!"_

He grinned as widely as he ever did and could possibly grin more, gladly standing off from the bench. He ran across the street as cars passed, nearly getting hit, but it didn't matter because he kept smiling. Nothing mattered. Nothing at all mattered to him in this life or any other life of any other person and _nothing_ could dare change his mind. Nothing mattered but _him_. His little boy.

Once he was in arms reach and the tiny, precious child was so close, he picked him up and held his fragile body against his chest. To feel that his boy's heart beat as quickly as his own made him want to cry. He did cry. His son's body was so much bigger now seeing him after far too long, hair so much longer and speech so, so much clearer.

"You missed me, Dad?" the boy asked him, grabbing his father's head to look him in the eye. "You miss me?"

He smiled. "Yeah, I missed you. I missed you very much."

"You still miss me?"

His heart was piecing together, but felt like it was breaking. His heart had been broken for so long, and any feeling made him feel it. This feeling - his child in his arm and his face this close to his face, his teeny hands on his shoulders - made his heart hurt with something like graciousness.

"No, not anymore," he said truthfully.

"Why?"

"Because you're with me now, sweetheart, I don't have to miss you."

"I missed you!" He flicked his hair out of his eyes face and quickly replaced his hands on Harry's shoulders. "Mummy don't like you so she don't let me see my dad."

He pretended to be surprised. "Oh, she didn't?"

"Yeah, she didn't, and I was real sad 'cause I couldn't see you 'cause I use to see you, like... everyday all the time."

They smiled at each other, though they were both for different reasons. The boy had a happy smile, for he had sincerely missed his father despite the lack of words describing his anguish. Harry smiled with nostalgia. He remembered the way his son had the idea that everyday was Friday as it was his way of saying today, tomorrow and yesterday. Though they hadn't seen each other yesterday, nor the day before that, or day before that. That is why he smiled. He wanted to go back to the time when Tuesday was Friday and Sunday was Friday and the third of April was Friday, though it could have been a Monday, but everyday was a Friday to him as it was to his son. They spent everyday together, and he would soon forget what day it was, but his boy always had the answer. Everyday was Friday if they spent it together, and the days they didn't, he never knew.

They walked round outside and sat in a takeaway restaurant, and he bought the boy a milkshake. He did have money. It wasn't much - not much at all - but it was enough to make them both happy at the time.

As the sun began setting and the wind grew wild, he took his hair down and pulled his boy's back with the ribbon, bowing it at the back of his head. He'd taken off his jumper and draped it over his boy's shoulders as he sat in his arms. They walked together going nowhere. And anywhere but the places they knew would be all right.

A car honked at them. "Hey!"

His smile fell and he was suddenly no longer in his perfect world. "What?" he said to the cigarette man once they met in a close parking lot.

The man looked at the two, the little boy staring intriguingly, his affections obviously blowing up. He beckoned them to his car. "Let's go shopping. I took the carseat back."

Later that night as he put his son to sleep in the bed he'd borrowed, he left the door open and bathroom light on in case one of them needed eyes to get to the other.

"What's his name?" Louis asked as he poured two wine glasses.

Harry sat sprawled out on the couch, Jasmine's head lain across his chest and body entirely over his, lathering her big face in sloppy pets. "Virgil. His mum's sister dropped him off."

"How old is he?"

"Four in March."

Louis nodded and left the kitchen, offering Harry a glass.

He kindly shooed Jasmine away and sat up to drink.

The doctor sat between them on the couch. "This entire time. All this time, that's who you've been waiting for." He sighed, taking a long sip of wine.

"You know, when you said that the first time, about how no one's worth waiting for if you're waiting a long time-- That just made me want to hit you. 'Cause, yeah, sometimes shit's not worth waiting for and sometimes shit don't matter, but... a lot of things do. Someone always matters to someone else, so it's like a cycle. Someone always matters."

He had broken the house rules, yet again, but this time was completely disregarded.

"Even people like you?"

He looked up from his hands that he'd been unknowingly staring at to watch the man's face. He didn't know whether to be angry or hurt or confused. He didn't know anymore. So he just sat and stared.

Smile. "Of course people like you matter. To more than just one person, I'm sure." He patted Jasmine's head and scratched her chin fondly.

"I must matter to Virgil, shouldn't I?"

"I'd love to think so."

"'Cause he's the only thing I've got. I would kill myself if I didn't have him. If I wasn't so persistent on getting him back, I'd've been at my shitty flat, high and wasted, half-dead already. If I didn't have him in my head, I'd've had nothing."

Louis finished his wine and poured himself and Harry another, gulping it down with no self-control. Chuckling, he pet Jasmine again, letting her lay her head down on his lap. "You're a good dad," he admitted, touching his scruff that had grown. "When a dad never gives up, that's... It's real great. I didn't have a dad like that, though I've had three. You'd think they were like you, but no. Not a single one. Have got you a dad?"

He set his glass on the table and lay his head in his hands. "Yeah. I mean, I was born, so." He sighed and rubbed his eyes with fatigue. "I didn't know him. He was just like I am now. Good for nothing and going nowhere."

"Where did you say you're from?"

"I didn't."

They were quiet for a long while, both watching the ground and their bare feet upon it. The little boy's shoes were on the chair across them with his coat, and they both felt assured suddenly.

"Your dad abandoned you?" the man asked.

"He don't mean shit to me."

Louis rubbed his arm with a sad look on his face, and Harry watched him.

He saw it - finally - what was colourful about him. It was on his face, he knew, what made him just out of reach of being snobbish. It was his eyelashes. Harry liked them.

"I can't quite wrap my head round the idea of your dad leaving you and you turning out to be like this," Louis admitted, softly squeezing Jasmin's ears. "My dad left me, too. He just left and didn't try to contact me until I was, like, eleven. And my mum married twice after he left. My dad-- My sisters' dad was so tough with me, so I ended being all..." He gestured to his clothes, "uptight and bitchy. And so... I don't get that your dad abandoned you... and you ended up being so good. Why are you like that?"

"I don't know. When you want your kids to be better than you, you just do... something. Anything. I didn't know what I was doing. No one taught me."

Just then, little Virgil came out from his nap, scrubbing his eyes with his small fingers as he tripped over his own oversized sock. He got back up, his father smiling at the clumsiness he unfortunately passed down, and shuffled himself on over.

"Hello, my sun," Harry said, lifting up his baby.

Virgil yawned and licked his lips. "Hi, my dad."

It was "Hello, my sun" that must have been Harry's favourite thing to say to him, because Virgil had always heard "my son" as in "my child" or "my offspring", for he'd respond with, "Hi, my dad." It was clear that Virgil knew how much he meant to his father, but to address him as "my sun" and have it seem as though he said "my son" was the greatest feeling in the world, because Virgil would never know what he'd been saying. That he had been greeting him everyday with "Hello, my sky," "Hello, my cloud," "Hello, my more beautiful than life itself, how have you slept?"

He had slept well knowing Harry was in the next room over.


End file.
